


Moving Fast Enough

by patster223



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Adrenaline Junkies in Love, F/F, First Meetings, Flirting, Pre-Canon, cops and robbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before she met Sloane, Hurley was so damn <em>bored</em>.</p><p>After...well. There's a reason Hurley divides her life into Before Sloane and After Sloane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Fast Enough

**Author's Note:**

> "If you have everything under control, you're not moving fast enough." - Mario Andretti

“What’s this?” Hurley asks, when Captain Bane drops a case file on her desk. “Cat stuck in a tree? Banker lost his wallet? Oh, slap fight broke out at the [fantasy] stock exchange?”

“Actually, it’s a case only my brightest lieutenant can solve,” Captain says gruffly—and whether he means that sarcastically or genuinely is impossible to tell at that decibel level.

When Hurley skims the file, she can’t help but roll her eyes. A petty thief? It’s not like Hurley _wants_ people to break the law, but, honestly, can’t Goldcliff’s criminals at least commit some _interesting_ crimes?

-

Okay, so it turns out that The Raven is… _wildly_ interesting. The first time Hurley corners her, The Raven knocks her off her feet: literally. And then says a startled “Sorry!” before running away from the scene. By the time Hurley gathers herself enough to make chase, all that’s left of The Raven is a single black feather dropped from her mask.

Hurley trudges home with her tailbone stinging slightly, but with her cheeks absolutely _burning_ : from humiliation, she tells herself. Not because that's where The Raven breathed her apology. _What kind of criminal apologizes to a militia officer?_ Hurley wonders, as she runs a finger down the silky raven feather.

The next day, Hurley comes to work to find a box of bandages on her desk. On top of them is a note with neat handwriting that reads _I’m so sorry I hit you. You startled me—and might I say, that doesn’t happen often. Congratulations, Lieutenant_ _:)_

It’s the smiley face that confirms Hurley’s conclusions. The rest of the note, the raven mask, the whole Robin Hood act: those all read as purposeful, even elegant. But that damn _smiley face…_

Hurley groans. She can’t believe it. The Raven—a supposed master thief—is a fucking _dork_.

Hurley makes sure to tell The Raven as much the next time that she corners her.

The Raven laughs behind her mask. It’s the second noise that Hurley’s managed to startle out of her since they first met. “A dork?”

“A big one. You see, I think I’ve got a pretty good read on you, Raven. We get a fair number of you vigilante types around a city like this,” Hurley says, gesturing to the high rises that tightly encircle the slums of the outer city. “Don’t think that you’re my first.”

The Raven is wearing a version of her mask with the lower part of her face exposed. That’s how Hurley first sees that mischievous grin. It’s probably supposed to be mysterious or something, but it’s far too crooked and wide to manage it.

“I’m not your first?” The Raven says.

Ugh. _Dork._ Except, now Hurley’s grinning too.

“Shut up,” Hurley snorts. ‘I’m still here to arrest you. You’re in trouble, Raven.”

“I just might be,” The Raven murmurs, so quietly that Hurley doubts she heard her correctly. Louder, The Raven adds, “Have a good night, Lieutenant,” and dashes off a bit of illusory magic to shield her escape.

And the thing is—Hurley could have caught her. She’s no stranger to the kind of street magic that The Raven favors, those kind of tricks can’t fool her.

It’s just…it really _is_ a good night. Dark and cool and shifting with the bright energy of the city. The Raven is a _part_ of that energy, exciting the city air with her very presence. Smothering that energy and filling the air with screeching militia sirens instead—wouldn’t that have been a crime of its own?

Hurley puts her head in her hands. Shit. When she said that she wanted interesting crimes, she hadn’t considered that with those, come interesting _criminals._

She makes sure _not_ to mention that train of thought to The Raven the next time they meet. She doubts that The Raven needs the ego boost.

Hurley doesn’t bother pulling out her badge this time, instead crossing her arms and leaning against the wall of the high-end department store. “I’m not sure I get you.”

The Raven pauses, but doesn’t look up from the bag into which she’s stuffing the store’s wares. “I thought you said you knew a lot of—how did you phrase is?—‘vigilante types.’”

“Yeah, but most of them don’t care about whether they hurt people. And _none_ of them stop to chat with me,” Hurley says. Her fingers linger at her handcuffs—she’s still not sure whether tonight will see her arresting The Raven or letting her go again. That indecision—that anticipation—charges the air between them.

“Nor do any militia officers stop to chat with _me_. You know, on account of them being too busy trying to arrest me.” The Raven smiles. “You must really be _bored_.”

Hurley shifts. “I’m not bored. I’m just-”

“Tired of not making a difference?” And, well, Hurley wouldn’t go that far—she does good work as a militia officer—but The Raven continues, “The thing is, Lieutenant, I think you do get me. I think you know what it’s like to be done sitting on your—your _fucking_ ass when there’s action to be taken.”

Gods, she’s so _angry._ But the fire in The Raven’s voice is easy for Hurley to match. Hurley sticks her chin up at the woman who’s nearly double her height.

“So what if I do?” Hurley says. “That doesn’t make what you’re doing any less illegal.”

“No. It does make it pretty _fun_ though.”

“And here I thought you were a morally upright gentleman thief, or whatever,” Hurley says, cursing herself when her words sound practically _fond._ “Turns out you’re just another adrenaline junkie.”

“Why not both? There’s nothing wrong with finding your job fun.” The Raven is grinning again. “I wouldn’t mind looking for some more fun either.”

Hurley’s mouth goes dry. The Raven’s stepped closer, leaving only feet between them: leaving Hurley itching to know what’s behind that mask’s feathers and beady eyes.

“What?” Hurley manages.

“I want to make you a deal. I dearly hope that you’re a good enough lieutenant to have figured out that I race battlewagons?”

Hurley can only nod.

“Beat me at next month’s race,” The Raven demands, “and I’ll let you arrest me. I’ll cooperate and everything.”

“And if I lose?”

The Raven shrugs. “We’ll see. Maybe you could ease up your investigation, but honestly—I’m mostly doing this to raise the stakes of this race a bit. Even wagon racing can get boring when you’re as good as me.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Nah. Just sure that you don’t like being bored either, Lieutenant.”

And, well…Hurley can’t exactly deny that. Maybe that’s why she takes The Raven up on her offer. It’d be far more efficient to simply arrest her during a robbery, but, well—this works too, right? It’s still doing the right thing, if Hurley beats her.

And it’s such a _fun_ way of doing it. Every night over the next month, instead of sleeping, Hurley works to make her old truck into something race-worthy. She’s exhausted, but she’s also so god damn _alive:_ fingers hot and thrumming from tinkering with molten steel and jagged gears, stomach churning and excitable as she puts a decent portion of her food budget into buying new parts, mind whirring as she designs weapons and tricks to impress—to _outsmart_ The Raven.

But all that preparation is nothing—nothing—compared to the actual race. Hurley’s fingers tremble on the clutch, she startles a foot in the air when the starting horn blares right in her ear, but then she’s moving, _racing_ so fast, screaming and laughing in a way that would never be appropriate when chasing down a criminal during her day job. Hurley cackles as her weapons find purchase in other wagons, curses when spells hit the roof of her truck, and yells out the window when she finally pulls up neck-and-neck with The Raven.

“Stakes high enough for you yet?” Hurley calls. The Raven’s responding laughter is as wild as Hurley’s own, and soon they’re trading spells and weapons back and forth, cursing each other when their hits land.

In the end, it’s only neck-and-neck for about a minute before The Raven gets the upper-hand—after all, she’s a far more experienced racer than Hurley is. The Raven twists the wheel and _rams_ her wagon into Hurley’s tiny truck. Hurley’s thrown against the window with enough force that the glass—and something in Hurley’s ribcage—cracks, and by the time Hurley manages to cross the finish line, The Raven has already collected her winnings.

Hurley wants to be sour about the loss, but her heart is too busy beating out of her chest: for the race, for the danger of it all, for _The Raven._

The Raven’s crooked grin turns into a frown when she sees Hurley limp toward her. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“Always apologizing to me,” Hurley chuckles.

“Well,” The Raven says, her neck flushing red. “Like I said, you startle me. That doesn’t happen often. You are a _tremendous_ racer, Lieutenant Hurley. I can’t believe that was your first time.”

“Who said you’re my first?” Hurley says, cackling again when The Raven’s flush darkens. “Nah, I’m kidding. I just know some stuff about wagons. And weapons. And racing.”

“An officer of the law?” The Raven says with a mocking gasp.

“Hey, you know that everyone watches the races,” Hurley says, elbowing The Raven in the side—and startling both of them with the movement. They could blame it on the adrenaline, but the point still stands: this isn’t something that literal cops and robbers are supposed to _do_ with each other.

Though, cops and robbers also aren’t supposed to race each other in battlewagons, so the blueprint for what they’re supposed to do with each other has more or less been thrown out the window. The thought makes Hurley’s heart race even faster: something she hadn’t even known was possible after that adrenaline-fueled race.

The Raven clears her throat. “Aren’t…aren’t you tired of just watching these races though?”

“Huh?”

“I just, I mean to say, ah-” Her words aren’t elegant of poised like The Raven’s should be: instead they’re bumbling, awkward, nearly incoherent. They’re _dorky._ “I saw you out there—I know you could never be content just watching the action from the sidelines. You’re like me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Hurley laughs—she can admit, it’s _kind_ of true. Doesn’t make The Raven’s words any more comprehensible though. “What are you getting at?”

“You’re a damn good racer, Lieutenant. I think we’d make a hell of a team.”

Hurley blinks. _What?_ She sputters, “A…a _racing_ team? I’m supposed to _arrest_ you!”

“To be fair, I _did_ win the race…And I believe you promised to ease up your investigation if I won…”

“Oh shush,” Hurley says, smiling despite herself. “You’re good at finding loopholes, aren’t you?”

The Raven stares at Hurley, and even though her eyes are hidden behind that mask, Hurley can still feel the full force of that gaze upon her.

“Tell me that you don’t believe in what I do,” The Raven says softly. “Tell me that you didn’t have the best time of your life out there today. Tell me that we wouldn’t _dominate_ next month’s race if we worked together.”

Hurley can’t. None of it is true. Her muscles are still tight with adrenaline, her heart still races—and her words come out breathlessly when she gives a final, halfhearted protest: “I don’t even know your _name_.”

The Raven hesitates for a split second before nodding decisively. Without looking away from Hurley, The Raven takes off her mask, revealing dark, intense eyes that bore into Hurley’s own. She sticks out a hand and says, “My name is Sloane, Lieutenant.”

Hurley doesn’t hesitate at all: not with The Raven— _Sloane’s_ fervent gaze still upon her. She puts her hand into Sloane’s own and says, “Hurley. You can call me Hurley.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Hurley,” Sloane says—smiling that stupidly crooked smile.

“Gods, you really are a dork,” Hurley says.

Sloane giggles—and it’s by far Hurley’s favorite sound that she’s startled out of Sloane yet.

“A dork that just beat you handily,” Sloane says smugly.

“Oh, that’s it,” Hurley says, sticking up her chin. “You are _on,_ Raven. Just you wait until I get my hands on that crap wagon you have.”

“I look forward to it,” Sloane says, with another throaty laugh, and Hurley can’t help but join in, because, well—

Because Hurley has never felt less bored in her life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It didn’t fit in the fic, but the reason that podcast!Hurley thinks beating Sloane at a race will work is because trying to beat Sloane the first time around is what ensured their partnership—so why wouldn’t it work a second time? And, in a way, it still did <3


End file.
